How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  I broke the seal, eager to reconnect with my peer. I absorbed the words and quickly realized how much I had missed his witty dialogue. But then my reading stopped. I held my breath and read the last phrase again: I wondered if you were up to a collaboration? A drama where the hero would suffer persecution from the hauntings of his soul.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, surprising even myself. For I had always prided myself on working alone, letting no one else take credit—or blame—for my work. And yet, the theme was so timely as to be irresistible. And close to home. For in the past year I had certainly felt many hauntings of the soul. Now I could write about such things from true experience. The play could be about real situations, with real men and women talking aloud to each other, exploring real emotions. Joy and grief, a child, and perhaps a wedding . . .

  I felt an inner stirring that made my blood flow fresh and vibrant through my body. It had been too long since I had felt such invigoration. Ideas vied for attention, each wanting a part in the project.

  I lay back upon the sofa, pressing the letter to my chest. Dear, dear Richard. I knew he was making the offer half out of kindness and the wish to amuse my mind. But I did not object to his charity and found, if anything, it endeared me to him. He had written as if I were well, and that was exactly what I needed. I was tired of being the invalid. The worst had not happened—I had not died.

  I repeated the phrase to myself, as if to cement it to the moment: I had not died, and was not going to die. Although I had once wished not to live, now . . . the faculty of living had emerged from under the crushing foot of grief. The poetical part of me had sprung to life again, and I felt it growing as freshly and strongly as if it had already been watered for many days.

  I found the bell to call Crow but put it down before it made its announcement. No. I would not call her to retrieve my writing utensils for me. I looked to Flush, lying at my feet. “No, Flush. I will do it myself. And even better . . .”

  And so I set the letter from Richard aside with the careful diligence of setting aside a sacred relic, then got out of bed. I moved delicately across the room to my desk. I pulled out the chair and sat. It was far less substantial than my bed or sofa, yet there was something enticing about sitting well up, forcing my back to be the support God had intended.

  I pulled out paper and pen and let the thoughts flow.

  And felt once more, finally, alive.

  The boat tossed in a windswept sea. The rain assaulted my face, a thousand pinpricks forcing my eyes shut, compelling my arms as ineffectual shields. Although all instincts implored me to shudder in the stern, taking shelter in my rain-soaked cape, I stood at the bow, determined to be stalwart and brave, determined to be the first to see him bobbing in the water, waving to me.

  “Come save me, Ba. Come. Come!”

  A bolt of lightning joined with thunder, compelling me . . .

  I shot upright.

  In my bed.

  Eyes open wide.

  Wounds open wider.

  I pressed a hand against my chest, willing my heart to calm, my lungs to stop their turbulent gasps.

  I tried to press nightmare and night into separate corners, choosing the darkness of the latter over the blackness of the former.

  But even in the true moment of now, I felt guilt as a cape that offered no protection. It was a smothering confinement, a prison for my sin.

  My bedchamber lit up in a flash of light, God’s lamp illuminating my transgression. See it? See? You cannot escape!

  Thunder rumbled its affirmation, and rain pelted against the windows as the wind wailed: conspiratorial jurors in the trial against me.

  I could not endure their condemnation. I huddled amid the covers of my bed, making myself as small as I could manage.

  Making myself as small as my worth decreed.

  I was surprised to awaken the next morning to sunlight streaming in my window, to a new day dawned. To time continuing forwards. Surely the storm would have claimed me as a sacrifice in exchange for Bro’s death.

  But I was alive.

  A horrible error that would one day demand correction.

  “You do mope so, Ba.”

  Henrietta stood at my bureau, rummaging for a scarf she often borrowed since I had no use for it, never venturing out-of-doors.

  “I do not mope.” I knew my defence was weak, if not false in its entirety. The continuing nightmares pulled me away from the hope of writing a play with Richard Horne and shrouded me with daily doom.

  The scarf retrieved, my sister closed the drawer. “Then come outside with me. It is a lovely day.”

  Lovely was a measurement I could not fathom. For my nightmare refused to let me think otherwise. Always present, tormenting me with its closeness, was its author: the sea. Its proximity was a battlement that held me captive, tormenting me with every nip of the ocean breeze, the stench of the salt air, and the thunder of the waves breaking upon the shore. And the people of Torquay, daring to make their living in its wake . . . and those visitors on holiday, parading past my window, having the audacity to laugh and chatter about nothing of importance. Henrietta was one of them, and to venture out with her would be to surrender to the enemy.

  “You go along,” I said. “I have another letter to write to Papa.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He is not going to let you go home. Not until Dr. Scully declares you well. Coming with me on my outing will help prove your case with him. Playing the part of the invalid will not aid your cause.”

  “I am not playing a part.”

  She shrugged and headed to the door. “Have a morose day, Ba.”

  I sucked in a breath in order to reply, but she was gone too soon to be the recipient of my anger.

  Let her mock me. Let this place mock me.

  Although I persisted in my quest to be allowed to go home to London, I could not help but feel that being stranded here was a suitable purgatory. I resisted calling it hell, because in hell there was no hope. And hope was what sustained me and kept me striving for heaven.

  I pulled out paper and pen for yet another plea towards that end.

  Getting home to London would be my heaven. My release.

  If I ever got there.

  In spite of my best intentions to remain despondent and punished, my nightmare eventually receded into a dark pocket, hidden and only remembered when I accidentally reached in and touched it, immediately withdrawing, recoiling from the memory of my trial upon the waters.

  I gave thanks to God for His respite and interminable mercy; to Flush, who loved me without restraint; and to Richard Horne, who trusted me completely and utterly by persisting towards our partnership. Through their determined intervention the despondent portion of my character took a much-needed rest, and the poet within me attempted once again to grow fresh and strong, a seedling responding to nurturing care.

  While I was not physically stronger, my mental and emotional capacities had improved. Although I was loath to admit it, Henrietta had been right. If I was ever to be deemed healthy enough to travel home, I had to make an effort to at least assume such an appearance.

  I had come to Torquay to improve my health, yet despite my assurances I was better—and would be better still, safely ensconced in the Barrett home—our family doctor, Dr. Chambers, worked against me, continuing to warn Papa of the sure state of my health if I spent any time in foggy, sooty London. As such, Papa saw no advantage to bringing me home, not when I was still in such a weakened state. I appealed to him on all fronts, though I did not want to press with as much alacrity as I had when I had pushed and prodded to make him let Bro stay here with me. The outcome of my pressure, then . . . I would not insist on my way again. Ever. Poor Papa’s biases were sacred. I would never again stir them with even a breath.

  But that did not mean I was averse to laying out my case plainly and with determination. If he understood that the sea, the maddening sea, which at one time had given me such pleasure, was now torture to me . . . The very sound of it, th
e smell of it, the sight of it—even in its most tranquil moments—elicited a pain as great as any discomfort sourced from within my physique.

  Plus there were things I could do back in London to help the family. Some of my brothers needed additional guidance. That I also needed them would be a point later made if necessary.

  Beyond sending letters directly to Papa, I elicited the help of my brother George to plead my case. If I were at home perhaps I could help my brother Henry settle down. He had great dreams of being in the military—which was not an objectionable occupation but for the fact that Henry saw only the gain and the glory, and refused to acknowledge the hard life and true dangers involved. He had always been impulsive and a bit selfish. When he’d been on his grand tour, he’d purposely run off by himself in Switzerland, causing no small amount of worry.

  Stormie would also benefit from my help. After Bro’s death he had returned from Jamaica, but had changed much. He barely stirred from his room. Did he feel guilty for not being present when Bro died? Would anything have changed if he had been here? Surely I could appease his distress, for only I was guilty.

  My other brothers needed me less—Alfred was doing well studying art, and Sette and Occy . . . I missed them so. Sette and his desire to be historical, logical, and oratorical, and Occy’s obsession with Dickens’ Mr. Pickwick, and his talent at judging the weather. If only he had been here the day Bro had died . . . would he have foreseen the freakish squall?

  But most of all, I did not long for any one of my siblings, rather for the set of them. Alone they were unique and precious, but as a collection of eight they were an entity that gave me strength.

  Henrietta popped her head in the door of my room, interrupting my thoughts of home. “I am going out,” she said, tying her bonnet under her chin.

  “Again?” I asked. There was condemnation in my voice. I did not know how she could traipse about this seaside city which had taken the life of our brother. “I can’t understand your craving for excitement, sister. Mine is for repose.”

  “And I do not understand your fear of stimulation. I have errands, Ba. Errands and people to see.”

  It was as though nothing had happened to Bro at all, and her cavalier attitude enraged me.

  When I did not answer her, she sighed heavily. “So you wish me to sit in this prison you have created for yourself, and moan or say little? You are not the instigator of lively conversation of late, Elizabeth.”

  She was right. When we fell back on only us we were found hard and dry.

  She tucked her hair beneath her bonnet. “And I am not up to your reading me dreadful poetry from that Browning man.” She caused herself to shudder.

  “It is not dreadful,” I said, defending the Bells and Pomegranates series I’d been reading. “Although it is a bit hard to understand.”

  She expelled a puff of air. “I, for one, do not enjoy reading anything that requires a dictionary.”

  No, she would not. And I could not argue that Robert Browning’s poetry required work. It had taken me three readings to access its full glory and see its genius.

  Henrietta opened her drawstring purse to search inside. “Arabel is gone too, off helping those children.”

  “Those children” attended a school nearby and benefited greatly from Arabel’s philanthropy. I was quite certain Henrietta would have had trouble even spelling the word, much less understanding its meaning.

  “I will not be gone long,” she said, ready to leave. Then she stopped and turned back to me. “Oh. A letter came from Papa—for you.”

  The “for you” included a hint of bitterness that was justified. And yet Henrietta frustrated me anew. “Why did you not bring it to me?” I asked. “You know I’m trying to get us home.”

  She shrugged—a common answer. Then she thought more of it and answered fully. “Have you ever considered that perhaps I do not wish to go home?”

  I was shocked. “But I thought . . .”

  “You think only of yourself, Ba.” She looked towards the hallway leading to the door below. “I enjoy it here in Torquay. I have friends here. And the beauty of this place versus dark and grimy London . . . I would miss the sea.”

  I was once again stunned by the differences between us. “The sea that took our brother’s life.”

  “The sea, which acts according to its nature, came into contact with our brother, who acted according to his. If there be any fault, it is with—”

  “No!” I would not let her say it. For if Bro acted in any way impetuously, it was I who was to blame for spurring him towards that action.

  Henrietta’s face softened. “Oh dear. I apologize. I know how sensitive you are, how vulnerable.”

  How guilty.

  “I will fetch the letter for you now, before I go out.” She made her escape from the awkwardness of the moment—another Henrietta trait I had come to expect.

  I pulled Flush’s head close and let him lick my cheek. “She will get us the letter,” I reassured him. A few moments later she returned, letter in hand. I greedily read through the contents looking for the magic words You may come home now, Ba.

  I came away from the reading confused. Papa was still uncertain regarding our return. It seemed Dr. Scully, my doctor here in Torquay, had told Papa that although he would not forbid me to go home, no trip could be taken any later than the tenth of September.

  I stared at the words. “But it is already August the fourth. A mere month to arrange our journey?” As I reread the page a question arose. Why September tenth? Why that date in particular?

  I did some calculations. The tenth was a Friday. It was not a holiday. And as far as I had ascertained in all my time in Torquay, the world did not change on this day. And the weather . . . September was far too early to worry about snow or sleet. I saw no reason or logic for the time limit.

  Yet reason or logic aside, I knew Papa would elevate Dr. Scully’s proclamation to law. I felt like a prisoner who had been given a date of release, but whose joy was unfairly burdened with conditions bordering on impossible.

  If only we could discuss it in person. The exchange of letters was excruciatingly slow and time was running out.

  Yet what alternative did I have but to send a message accepting the offer and pleading with Papa to facilitate our departure before the ominous September the tenth.

  As I took up my pen to create my petition I added a plea to our heavenly Father. Surely He would allow us to go home.

  Calm, Ba. You must stay calm.

  Finally, we were leaving Torquay. After my letter earlier in the month, Papa had relented. I saw no reason for his decision, as the words I had chosen in my argument were no more persuasive than any others I had used over the past fifteen months, and so, I gave credit to God for changing my father’s mind.

  The question upon everyone’s mind—especially my own—was whether I was well enough for the journey, which was expected to take a week or more. Over two hundred miles of travel. Four women and a dog, unaccompanied by male escort other than the driver. Papa had ordered a carriage specially altered, allowing me to recline, but I knew there would be much to bear, much to dread. Yet I had to remain strong. I had wanted this, begged for it. If I suffered, it was my own fault.

  Crow tucked a blanket around me as the driver finished tying our trunks. “There you be. All snug.” She gave me the pointed look she often utilized, lowering her head, her eyes intense. “You all right, miss?”

  I hugged Flush closely, finding comfort in his warmth. “I have to be, don’t I?” I whispered.

  Crow glanced at Henrietta and Arabel as they settled on the facing seat of the carriage and whispered back to me. “I will help you through this. I will. There will be no turning back, not with me here.”

  I squeezed her hand, taking succor in her presence—and her strength. God had been very wise and merciful when he had brought Elizabeth Crow into my life. And now it had come to this, two Elizabeths, united by determination.

  I had the feeling
this was not the last time we would be so joined.

  I reminded myself to breathe.

  The carriage was moving. We were off to London. Soon, very soon, I would be ensconced in our Wimpole Street home, a part of the family again, no longer separated by endless miles.

  Henrietta looked out the window and sighed. “Oh, how I will miss this place,” she said.

  Again, the differences in our opinions astounded me. But I did not argue with her. I, for one, was glad to be finally away from this place that had taken the life of our brother and that had not granted me the full health that had been promised.

  “Look out the window, Ba,” Henrietta said. “Most likely it is the last time we will ever see this vista of the sea.”

  I shook my head and leaned it against Flush. To further express my view, I closed my eyes.

  Thankfully, she turned her attention to Arabel, and together my two sisters recounted the good times they had experienced in Torquay.

  In defence, I forced myself to remember Bro and our good times long before this awful place had come between us . . . until sleep came and blessedly took me into its arms.

  “Ba, contain yourself,” Henrietta said. “Papa would never forgive us if you expired before you got out of the carriage.”

  She was right, of course, and I closed my eyes and forced my breathing to abandon its rapid rhythm. I was less successful with the beat of my heart but hoped that agitation resulting from such a happy occasion would not prove detrimental. I wanted to show Papa that his decision to let us come home was made wisely. For even though the eleven-day trip had been exhausting, pushing me beyond many levels of comfort and its opposite, I had persevered. We were home!

  The carriage passed Portman Square, and I looked upon the trees and gated gardens in front of Montagu House knowing that in just a few blocks . . .

  I hoped Papa and the boys would be at home. We had sent word after our last stop that we would be arriving today, but such messages were only partially reliable, as there was little to stop the messenger from lagging along, or never delivering our message at all.